


the magic warms our hands (and our hearts)

by Katricia



Series: what makes a family [1]
Category: DreamSMP, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Magic AU, all that sweet sweet found family shit, def not angsty at all, everyone gets a special gift, everyone gets magic, it's gonna be great, sbi boys, someone help i don't even know what i'm writing at this point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 06:00:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28346520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katricia/pseuds/Katricia
Summary: This is mostly just a SBI au fic in which everyone has magic. And everyone has a gift that goes along with that magic. Phil can create a home wherever he goes, Techno can grow anything, anywhere, Wilbur can make inspire people to do anything he asks, and create illusions that are incredibly lifelike, and Tommy can heal. Be prepared for a lot of angst as they come together and make a family!
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: what makes a family [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2098977
Comments: 42
Kudos: 369





	1. TECHNOBLADE

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on tumblr at blueeyedjoy!

He is 7 years old, and he just learned how to coax crops to grow from netherrack. He doesn't know it yet, but he's going to be the most valuable member of the bastion: there are plenty of piglin alchemists, but you can't turn gold into food. For now, though, he's growing flowers, laughing as they shoot up to be taller than he is, as sparks of green magic dance around his fingers and the plants. It's not hard, it feels like breathing.

Looking back later, when he's older and wiser, he knows better. He knows better than to take that much joy in something, to let your guard down like that. He wasn't watching his back, and even at 7, he should have known better. If he'd known better, he wouldn't have been stolen.

The people who stole him run The Pits. He'd been told before to be careful, or else the overworlders will steal you, but he never really believed it was true. Now he does. Now he's been put in some ill-fitting armor, and told through gestures and slaps that he's going to be fighting...someone? Or something? The overworlder's language is confusing, too light and fast, and he has no idea what it means when they squawk at him.

Still, he stumbles through the door, clutching a golden sword that is too heavy for his arms, and he's immediately faced with someone his own size, but with the pale skin and flat face of the overworlders. His (her? Gender is hard when it comes to the overworlders) armor fits better, and his sword is iron, and glimmers with enchantments. Clearly, he is meant to fight him, but he only just started training with the other Brutes. He isn't strong enough. He has no other choice though, so he sets his feet and raises his sword, jaw clenched. He will try his best, and he will grow his skills, and someday, he will leave this place. Someday, he will go home again.

* * *

He is 10 years old, and the man who runs the pit is holding his hand in the air as people cheer. He can smell nothing but blood, but then, he hasn't been able to stop smelling it since he got here, everything seems to be drenched in it, including himself. Bodies are strewn behind him, overworlders and mobs alike, and he has to swallow the gorge that's rising. He's become more skilled, and sometimes that's a curse.  
"What's your name, kid?" The man asks, still not letting go of his hand, and he fixes him with a blank look. He'd worked to learn the language, and he can speak it, but it's easier to pretend he can't. He doesn't want to talk to anyone. The man scoffs, shakes his head.  
"Fucking piglins. Fine. You'll be...The Blade!" He roars the last two words, and the crowd chants them back. He doesn’t quite smile, but he throws his shoulders back and meets the eyes of the crowd, surveying them like he rules them already. Someday, he’ll be more. For now though? For now the name fits him. He will be nothing but a weapon, and he will destroy them.

That night, he dreams. He dreams of a room covered in blood, the smell enough to make him dizzy. The floor is paved with blocks that look like netherite, but squish unpleasantly under his feet. Entrails hang from the ceiling, and there are heads hung on the wall. Something, not quite a man, not quite a beast, something that doesn’t have a true form, seats on a throne of bones at one end of the room. He approaches slowly, hand on the sword that never leaves him, even in his dreams.  
“You are strong, child.” The voice rumbles, and he’s not sure if it’s actually out loud, or in his head, because it echoes through his head in a way that seems as though he is the only one who can hear it.“

You are strong, and destined to grow stronger, with your gifts,” the being, entity, _god_ , leans forward in his seat and smiles, too many sharp teeth crammed in a too red mouth.

“Let’s make a deal.”

The next day, he leaves. The Blood God has already pushed him further, grown him past what he ever dreamed, and he leaves a trail of blood in his wake, sacrifices for his new patron.

Their voices still scream his name.

_The Blade._


	2. WILBUR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Wilbur

Wilbur can’t remember where he came from. He was born, certainly, and perhaps he had parents. A mother and a father. He imagines them, sometimes, when he’s huddled in a villager’s barn, people with bright smiles and soft hands, who hug him often and never allow anything bad to happen to him. They wouldn’t allow him to be cold and alone. Those are dreams though, and this is real life. All he has here is a guitar that’s too big for his small fingers, a coat too broad for his shoulders, and a hat that slips over his eyes.

He huddles in the barn until morning, and he walks, and walks, and walks. He doesn’t know where he’s going, he never knows. He just knows that he’s looking for something more than what he’s left behind. Cold streets, cold people, and colder nights. He wants something warm, something that he can call home.

He’s walked for 6 days when he meets a man on the road. The man has soft eyes and a smile like the dawn. He smiles at Wilbur, and something in him melts, and he almost feels warm. He almost feels like he’s come home, even though it makes no sense. He doesn’t know this man, he doesn’t think. He can’t remember. Maybe he does.

“Are you all alone out here, then, little one?” The man asks, and Wilbur nods, eyeing the fields next to them. There are trees on the far edge, if he runs, he could lose the man there. He doesn’t want to be alone again, but he can’t trust this man. The last man he met on the road beat him and took the few emeralds he’d traded the villagers for (they hadn’t seem excited for the straight sticks he’d spent hours searching for, but they had taken pity on him in the end), and left him there, unable to move with the pain coursing through him.

“Why don’t you come home with me? You can get a good meal, and if you want to leave afterwards, I’ll make sure you have enough food to last you on the road.” The man offers, and Wilbur only hesitates a moment before nodding again. He’s hungry, and he thinks he would give just about anything for a good meal. Something that isn’t apples he found in a tree, or potatoes dug from a field before villagers find him there.

The man turns to start walking, and Wilbur only just stops a gasp from escaping. There are wings sprouting from the man’s back, golden and filled with light in the evening sun. He’s never seen anything like it, and somehow, it makes him trust the man more, so that he surges forward, slips a small hand in the man’s larger one, beams up at his surprised face.

“I’m Wilbur. Can you fly with those?” He introduces and questions all in the same breath, and the man laughs, his face lighting up as he does, and the feeling of home is so strong it takes Wilbur’s breath away.

“I’m Phil. And yes, yes I can.”


	3. TOMMY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one is very short, so you get two in one day.

Tommy has known since before he could remember what his gift was. Healing magic isn’t necessarily as rare as some, but it’s rare enough that no one else in his city has it. It’s rare enough that no one really understands how it works, so they don’t know why he complains of aches and pains after he heals someone. He’s a kid, and a rambunctious one, so it just makes sense that he’s hurt himself somehow, and he’s not good enough with his magic yet to heal himself. It’s not a big deal, kids are just like that. Besides, he’s only 5 and already he’s making the family more money than they’ve ever had before.

Tommy doesn’t really mind anyways. It feels good when he heals someone, like he can do anything at all. That’s why he heals the boy who falls outside his house, why he doesn’t refuse when his parents bring him to other houses and tell him to heal broken arms and cuts that people get. He’s useful, and it might hurt a little, but no one seems to think that’s a bad thing, so maybe it isn’t? It doesn’t hurt that bad, anyways. It doesn’t hurt that bad until his uncle comes home, a slice across his stomach that is bleeding far too much, seeping around Tommy’s hands as he struggles to make the skin knit together, ignoring the pain that seems like it’s enveloping him. Red grows over his vision, and he screams as it turns to black, his hands falling even as someone pushes them against the wound.

He wakes up too hot, a blanket thrown carelessly over where he’s laying on the floor. Everything hurts, and he sits up slowly, only to freeze at the sight of the blood staining the rug. He yells his uncle’s name, ignoring his sore muscles as he fights with the blanket, struggling to stand, to find his family and make sure they’re safe. 

His mother appears in the doorway, face set in an expression of distaste, as though she can hardly bear to look at him. 

“Your uncle is dead. You didn’t save him. And you’ve been asleep for two days.” It sounds as though that’s worse to her than the fact that his uncle, her brother is dead. Like he had any control over it, and as though she did more than toss a blanket over him. He shrinks into the blanket anyways, drawing it tighter across his shoulders. She scoffs at him before turning away, shaking her head.

“I wish I had a more useful son.”

He leaves that night, without telling anyone. No one cares anyways, not really, and he’s going to prove them wrong. He is strong. He is useful. He is better than they think.


	4. GIFTS - TECHNO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am not good at chapter titles. Phil finds out what Techno's gifts are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr at blueeyedjoy if anyone wants to come talk about the boys XD
> 
> Also, we can't decide if this is fluff or angst. Vote in the comments. ;)

Phil doesn’t find out what Techno’s gift actually is until the teenager has been staying with them for six months. Tommy had been with them for a few months now, and they are both sitting on the front porch, escaping the two hyperactive kids inside. Phil has found himself connecting more and more with Techno, enjoying the silence with company in a way he hasn’t really been able to with Wilbur. 

Before now, he always assumed that Techno’s gift was battle magic, or strength, or something similar. Something that matches the careless comments the teenager has dropped, hinting at a life of fighting and blood. But today, Techno has a handful of seeds he’s absently sifting from hand to hand, and a green spark draws Phil’s eye. Before he can say anything, one of the seeds is sprouting, despite a lack of soil or water. Techno doesn’t seem to notice, or at least doesn’t seem to think it’s something surprising, but Phil has to say something.

“Techno. Is that a plant?” He asks, leaning forward. It’s tiny and delicate, but still growing as green sparks fall around it. Techno starts, looking down at his hand, and frowns. The sparks disappear, and the plant droops immediately.

“No.” Techno lies, the way he hunches his shoulders making it obvious, and Phil reaches out to lay a hand on Techno’s shoulder.

“It’s a good gift, kid. You shouldn’t hide it.” He encourages, not sure why Techno would. Magic like that is difficult for anyone without a gift, it takes a massive amount of precision. This kid can do it without even thinking about it, without even realizing. Techno stands though, hand on his sword and strides away without saying a word, walking towards the small training area he’d built himself. Phil watches him go, wondering if the helpless feeling building in his chest is just part of being a father, or if it’s part of being a terrible father. If a real one would know whether or not he should follow the teenager, push him to talk.

In the end, he stays where he is. He’ll be here when Techno wants to talk. That has to be enough.

* * *

It’s a bad night for the voices. Techno hasn’t killed anything but a couple of zombies in half a year, and the Blood God is displeased. The voices are shouting, and even wrapped in a blanket, with the pillow smashed around his head, Techno can’t drown them out. They’re yelling for blood, for him to get up and get them blood in any way he can. They want him to kill Wilbur, sleeping peacefully across from him, they want him to sneak into Phil’s room, into Tommy’s, to paint himself with their blood and trail it across the country, and he has to stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from screaming. This isn’t his home, but it’s closer than anything else in the Overworld, these people are  _ family  _ in a way he hasn’t found anywhere else, and hurting them is going to kill him. He knows it’ll happen eventually though. He can’t shave off all his sharp edges, he is still The Blade, even if everyone here just calls him Techno.

He almost forgot, sitting with Phil. He let his guard down, let himself not think about blood and death for a moment, and his magic had responded accordingly, in a way it hadn’t since he was a child (he’s still a child, a voice that sounds like Phil whispers, he’s still a child and it’s not fair that he doesn’t act like it, that he doesn’t know how). He sits up in bed, running a hand through hair that’s getting too long before he picks up his sword and leaves, bare feet silent against the wood. Laying here isn’t helping anything, the voices only get louder when he stays still, and at least making a hot drink is Phil Approved, unlike going and training at whatever time it is. He shoves back the voices that scream he should leave, should put on his boots and saddle Carl and ride away, away, away, until he’s far enough he can serve the Blood God once more. 

Instead, he makes his way to the kitchen, lays his sword on the counter, and starts getting the ingredients together for hot chocolate. It’s a child’s drink, but tonight he’s feeling more like a child than normal, and wants the comfort of it. The voices yell at him again, telling him it would taste better with the blood of his enemies, and he ignores them, adding extra chocolate instead. 

Soft footsteps sound behind him, and he can feel his shoulders tense, but he doesn’t turn around. He blows his hair out of his eyes instead, taking a sip of the drink as he closes them, lets the warmth flow through him.

“You’re up late.” Phil’s voice is quiet, but it’s always quiet. Techno just hums in response, distracted by the heightened demand for sacrifice. Distracted enough that he doesn’t notice when Phil draws closer, when he lays a hand on Techno’s arm. He flinches violently enough that some of the cocoa splashes over his hand, and he hisses at the burn. The voices scream for revenge, and he flinches again, hitting the wall in a blind bid for escape. He won’t hurt Phil, he won’t. He can’t, Phil is the only one who cares, Phil is the one who took him in, and he won’t hurt him.

His vision clears, and his cup is shattered on the ground behind Phil. Phil, who’s kneeling in front of him, wingtips dragging in the spilled cocoa. He didn’t remember falling, but he’s on the ground now, curled around himself as Phil rubs a hand down his back, breathing nonsense that’s somehow soothing. Even the voices quiet a little, and he takes a deep breath, ignoring the way it shudders and how his cheeks are wet. He isn’t crying, it’s the spilled cocoa. 

“I should-I should clean that up,” he mutters, trying to keep himself from just hiding his face and staying like this forever. Phil makes an unconcerned noise and pats his shoulder. 

“Go sit down on the couch, kiddo. I’ll be there in a second.” He orders. Techno considers just crawling over there, but he has some dignity left, so he stands and crosses to the couch, flopping down and wrapping himself in a warm blanket. The voices are back without Phil there, louder than ever, and he loses himself in them until Phil clears his throat in front of him, and he notices the way the man is holding out a fresh mug. He cups this one carefully, eyeing the way Phil sits on the other end of the couch. The man doesn’t say anything, just sips from his own mug and waits, and Techno hasn’t been able to keep anything from him since he woke up here.

“I was in the Pits, when I was a kid,” he starts. More of a kid than he is now, and he sees a familiar shadow pass over Phil’s face, the way he sets his shoulders in a way that says he’s bracing for more pain. “Doesn’t really matter, but I got noticed. The Blood God, he calls himself, and he offered me…it doesn’t matter what he offered me, but I said yes. And now, I’ve got-I’ve got his voice, all these voices in my head. They want me to kill, to sacrifice to him, and I can’t make them stop.” His voice is almost a whisper by the end, and the voices are screaming at him for telling someone about them, but that was never a rule, not really. He can tell anyone he wants, even if they don’t like it. Phil’s shoulders are sagging now, the lines in his face are deeper, and Techno shrinks deeper into the blanket.

“They’re loud tonight, is all. I can’t sleep,” he mutters, hating himself for burdening Phil this way. The man already took in 3 orphans, already does what he can, and Techno doubts this is what he wanted. At least Wilbur and Tommy are sweet and fun. He’s prickly, with sharp edges that won’t ever dull. He’s The Blade, and he has no idea how to change that sword into a hoe. He should leave, and the voices roar in agreement, loud enough that he tenses again, despite knowing that Phil is watching him. 

“Come here, kiddo,” Phil’s voice is soft, and Techno doesn’t look at him as he slowly shuffles closer, as Phil makes him turn and starts combing out his snarled hair with his fingers. It’s soothing, even with the voices still yelling, and they start to quiet as Phil continues, patiently unknotting every kink until it’s smooth, and slowly braiding it. Techno can feel himself relax, the voices quieting, until he’s nearly asleep when Phil finishes, running a hand over his head one more time.

“Go to bed, Techno. We’ll be here in the morning.”


	5. GIFTS - WILBUR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next we find out what Wilbur's gifts are, in possibly the worst way. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmu at blueeyedjoy  
> also I only have one more part written in advance so uh...updates may slow down

Wilbur's talent, since before he can remember (he actually can't remember much, it's worrying if he thinks about it, so he mostly just doesn't), has always been illusions. He can make anything realistic - Phil still hasn't forgiven him for the creeper prank - or he can make things that are just...magical. Music is his favorite, he weaves magic between the strings and it flies with the notes, colored lights, red and green and blue and yellow, all swirling in perfect time with the beat. It's perfect, just him and Phil, sitting on the porch, or the old couch. Then Techno joins, sitting in the corner or by the fire, pretending not to listen as he polishes his sword, but his ears always give him away. Then Tommy comes, and he insists on trying to learn the guitar as well. Wilbur teaches him, but he never does get the hang of weaving the magic into the music. 

He's 15 when he decides that he and Techno should look more alike, more like brothers, and so he changes. It takes hours in front of the mirror, but he finally gets it, the pointed ears, the longer snout and long brown hair. He's not giving himself pink hair, not even for his brother, but he's pleased with the end result, right up until he walks out and Techno nearly chokes on his drink. His brother's laughter is rare enough that he's usually happy when it happens, but this time he scowls at him. 

"What are you laughing at?" He demands, crossing his arms. Techno is still laughing, but he shakes his head.

"You, idiot. You can't be a brute, you're a shrimp." He grins, teeth a little too sharp for anyone who doesn't know that he would never hurt his family, and Wilbur scowls harder, wishing he was young enough to stomp his foot. Clearly this is some piglin culture thing that Techno assumes everyone knows, and it's always annoying when he breaks it out. 

"Go jump in a lake, you asshole." He bites out, turning to go back into the bathroom. He'll just give himself blonde hair instead, then him and Tommy will look more alike, and Techno will be left out. 

"Techno, where are you going?" Phil's voice is surprisingly concerned, and Wilbur doesn't know why until he turns around. Usually Phil lets them do what they want, when he's even home. Now that he and Techno are older, he's given into wanderlust more and more, and is often gone for days at a time. So it's not until Wilbur looks at his brother that he realizes the reason for concern. Techno left his sword on the table. Techno is about to walk out the front door without his sword. 

Techno never goes anywhere without his sword, and he never ignores Phil the way he is right now, walking out the door like a man possessed. They both stand in silence for a moment, and then Phil is standing, grabbing the sword and following, Wilbur on his heels, illusion forgotten. Techno ignores both of them, keeps walking until he gets to the pond they all swim in on hot days. Only today, it's cold and not quite icy, but close enough that being outside isn't fun, and Wilbur pauses, something in the back of his mind realizing what's about to happen just before the splash erupts and a yell sounds out. He cringes away as Techno wades out of the pond, eyes red with fury. He doesn't say a word, just snatches his sword from Phil and marches towards the road. 

Wilbur watches him go, shrinking in on himself before he turns to Phil, pleading.

"Phil, I didn't mean to, really. I didn't even know I could do that, he's not gonna stay mad, is he?" He'll come back, right? If not for Wilbur, then for Phil, or for Tommy. Phil just shakes his head though, eyes on Techno's fading back, and he claps a hand to Wilbur's shoulder.

"You go on inside. I'll go and talk to him."

Wilbur obeys, already swearing to himself that he will never do this again. He's never going to hurt someone with his gift again. 

  
  


Of course, the best laid plans are rarely seen through, and Techno has been gone a month when it happens again. Tommy is being annoying, talking and bouncing on the other end of the couch while he tries to get this one chord down for his new song, and he finally snaps.

"Tommy! Go to your room and be quiet," he says, scowling down at the guitar. There's a moment of stunned silence before the 10 year old obeys, and Wilbur lets out a sigh of relief at the silence before he continues.

Tommy doesn't come out for dinner, but Wilbur assumes he's pouting, says as much to Phil, and promises to check on him afterwards. They eat dinner, and it's much quieter without the blonde, especially with Phil tossing worried glances at his bedroom door every few minutes. It remains firmly shut though, until Wilbur slowly pushes it open after leaving Phil with the dishes.

He expects to see Tommy sitting on his bed playing a game with himself, or scowling at him, or even an empty room before he expects what he sees. Tommy, wedged in the furthest corner of the room, mouth firmly shut and no sound escaping even as tears stream down his face. At the sight of Wilbur, he pushes further into the corner, and his own words come flooding back. 

"Oh no, oh Tommy, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, please stop, you can stop now, I'm so sorry," the words flow out of him as he reaches his hands out uselessly. He wants to hug his little brother, wants to comfort him, but he lets his hands fall until he's hugging himself. He's done this, and now Phil is going to make him leave. Maybe it would be for the best, then Techno could come home, and Tommy would be safe, and he wouldn't be able to hurt anyone else. 

He sinks to the floor, barely aware of the way Tommy charges out of the room, yelling for Phil, but it feels like an eternity later before strong hands are lifting him up, cradling him under the shelter of soft wings, and he shifts to bury his face in Phil's chest, chants apologies until he feels sick.

"It's okay, kiddo," Phil's voice finally breaks through an indeterminable amount of time later. "It's okay. Tommy's okay, Techno is gonna be okay. Everything is gonna be okay, I promise." He sniffles, rubs his face against Phil's chest.

"You can't promise that," he hiccups. "What if I do it again? What if I-" what if I hurt someone? He can't finish the sentence. Tommy could live without dinner, Techno had been through worse than a cold dunk in water. But he could do worse, he somehow knew that. He could do much worse, and anyways it wasn't what he made them do. It was that he made them do it in the first place. He knew that was why Techno had left. That was why Tommy was crying, and Phil's arms tightened around him minutely.

"You just have to be careful, Wil. Work on controlling that temper of yours, okay? You can do it, I know you can." He had to, that's what Phil wasn't saying, and Wilbur sniffed one more time, and nodded, pushing away from the embrace.

"I gotta go apologize to Tommy again." He says quietly.

Tommy accepts his apology, already shoveling food into his mouth at a rate that suggests he hasn't eaten in days, not just a few hours, and Wilbur escapes to his bedroom. He sits on the edge of the bed, kicking his legs as he stares at the bed on the other side of the room. Phil had offered to build another room when he found Tommy, but he and Techno didn't mind sharing. He missed having the soft snores of the other boy. Techno had left before, but never longer than a week, and he usually wrote if it was longer than a day. They hadn't heard a thing, but Phil didn't seem worried.

Wilbur blew out a breath and stole a piece of paper and a pen from Techno's side of the room, curling up on his bed to write this letter. It was important, he had to get it just right. 

  
  


_ Dear Techno, _

_ I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I didn't even know I could do this, and it's scary now. I don't want to hurt anyone, but I think I might. Will you come home? I know you can stop me, if you have to. I don't think Phil will, not until it's too late, and I don't want to hurt Tommy or anyone else.  _

_ I don't know where you are, but I bet you want to come home. I'll leave, if you want, so you can come back. I can be a traveling musician or something, but it's not fair that you have to leave because I did something bad.  _

_ I love you,  _

_ Wilbur _

The spell for sending letters is simple, and he watches it disappear with a lump in his throat. He was going to wait for the reply, but finds himself falling asleep in his brother's bed, wakes up to a reply on a wrinkled piece of paper, stained with bloody fingerprints.

_ Wil, _

_ Don't leave, idiot. I'll be home soon. Tell Phil and Tommy hi. _

_ Techno _

There's nothing about Wilbur's other requests, not that he expected there to be, but he lets out a breath of relief anyways. If Techno is coming home, maybe everything really will be okay.


	6. GIFTS -TOMMY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys learn a bit more about Tommy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo come see me at blueeyedjoy on tumblr
> 
> also this is the last of my prewritten stuff so it might be slower updates.

Tommy has been living in the small cabin for nearly three years, and he’s learned a few things. The first is that his new family is clumsy. They don’t even seem to notice the bruises they gain, and Wilbur’s hands are always cut from his guitar strings. Techno and Phil sometimes go too far when they spar, and come inside with scratches and bruises that decorate their skin and make his fingers twitch. He has to find an excuse to touch them, to hug them and wipe away the hurts. It’s not hard, he’s a tactile person anyways. They never realize, either. They just think they heal quickly, or they don’t even notice they were hurt in the first place. Wilbur’s sprained ankle is the trickiest, he has to heal that one more slowly, but he still heals it within a week, because the sight of Wilbur limping around makes him feel like clawing off his own skin. It’s a compulsion, but he still hides it.

He learns they aren’t the same as his old family, Phil’s eyes never change from being kind and warm, Wilbur always calls him his brother, and even Techno’s grumpiness is fond, not cruel. None of them have even commented on the fact that he doesn’t seem to have a gift, even if they each try to teach him things. Wilbur teaches him to play the guitar, tries to show him how to weave the magic into the strings, but his illusions are never as breath-taking. Phil teaches him to cook, how to plant and take care of animals, and more than that, he listens when Tommy talks. Techno teaches him to fight (the first time he hands Tommy a sword, Tommy almost cuts off a finger, and Phil promptly bans him from handling anything but a wooden sword), and Tommy definitely can’t match his brother, but he can defend himself now. He’s not useless, even if they don’t know he has a gift.

He learns that no one really notices if he steals a little food. He stashes it away, and uses the letter spell to send it. He doesn’t think Phil would want another kid, he already looks worried all the time, but Tubbo is still out there, and he can’t just leave him. He can send him clothes, and food, and if no one notices, that’s all the better. He can’t give these people too much, for all that they are family. Family doesn’t always mean anything, after all.

It’s a stormy night when Phil stumbles through the door of their little cabin, blood and rain soaking his clothes to drip on the floor. Tommy is frozen for a few seconds, watching his brothers panic, and he knows it’s a bad idea even as he surges forward, as he pulls at Phil’s shirt to find the wounds and press his hands against the worst of them, hands glowing with the golden healing magic he hasn’t seen in so long. This isn’t a release, a small pinch and then a surge of energy like little things are. This is his magic leaving in a flood, ripping away until it feels like his soul is going with it, and he bites his lip to keep the scream inside. He’s better than he was, he’s older and stronger now, and he can do this. He can heal Phil. He’s  _ not  _ useless. 

His brothers aren’t panicking anymore, the cabin is silent other than the thunder outside when he finishes, exhaustion and pain running through him. He smiles up at Phil’s shocked face, pleased at the way color has returned to him. He’s healed everything, he knows he has, and he sways where he’s squatting uncomfortably on the floor.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he slurs, then everything goes black as he falls forward into waiting arms.

He wakes to warmth and golden light seeping from behind the curtains, falling across his family, asleep in a heap on the floor. Techno and Wilbur are a tangle of limbs, and Phil is next to them, one wing extended to cover them in place of a blanket, holding them close. They all look safe, they all look healthy, and they are  _ here _ . They moved him to a bed, covered him with a warm blanket, and he can feel nothing but warmth and a soft happiness that feels like nothing so much as home. He pushes back the blanket though, tiptoes quietly to Phil's other side and worms his way under the man's other wing, pressing close to the warmth and sense of safety that Phil seems to emit. He heaves a sigh, content with his family. His real family.


	7. THE AFTERMATH

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil decides healing them costs Tommy too much.

Tommy is still sleeping the next day when the family gathers around the kitchen table. It's bigger now than it was when Techno first arrived, and four chairs sit proudly around the scratched surface. He traces one of the gouges idly, avoiding the eyes of the other two. He's fairly certain he knows what this meeting is about, why Phil asked to talk to them out here, before Tommy wakes up, and he knows he isn't going to like it. 

"He's been healing us since he got here, hasn't he?" Wilbur is usually the first to speak, unable to let silence reign for long, and he's also not wrong. Techno has to think about it for a moment, but he hasn't had an injury last longer than a few days since the kid came to live with them. No wonder he'd been scared to tell them: a talent like that could be used by the wrong people. The voices scream in denial: they've taken a liking to Tommy for some reason, and Techno lets out a slow breath.

"He hurt himself, healing me," Phil's voice is more weighty than normal, and when Techno glances up, the man's face has more lines than usual, a darkness to his eyes that makes him worry the gouge in the table deeper with a nail. "We have to make sure that doesn't happen again, at least until he gets stronger. Until we can make sure he won't hurt himself to help us." That was an idiot's goal. Anyone who talked to the kid for more than a minute would be able to see that he would do anything for his family. For them. 

"Techno," there's an agonizing silence until he drags his gaze up to meet Phil's. "We need to stay home. We can't go out and get hurt and drag it back here for him to fix." Phil isn't wrong, but something in him still screams at the injustice. At the way that because Tommy was hurt, he had to hurt. 

Because oh this would hurt. He'd had bad nights, but he'd been more and more free to wander in the last two years, finding fights and making a name for himself, all in the name of the Blood God, and all before dragging himself home. Usually uninjured, but not always. And there was always the chance that someone would get in a lucky blow, get under his defenses, and how far would Tommy push himself to heal his big brother? 

"I could just...leave. Not come back if I'm hurt. Or at all. You could visit me," his voice is quiet, but it still sounds thunderous in the quiet room, and he doesn't look up, even when Wilbur drags his chair closer, knees knocking against Techno's.

"You can't just  _ leave _ , Techno. Why would you, anyways? Just to go fight in some contest? We're more important than that." He says, confident in his understanding of what's happening. He doesn't know, though. He doesn't know about the Blood God, the voices that even now scream for him to leave, to find something, someone to sacrifice. They have quieted about his family, but they'll turn on them, given enough time. He wonders if they would turn on him too, if he was alone somewhere. He doesn't dare find out, and he meets Phil's calm gaze with his own, gives a small shrug.

"Yeah, Wil. You're more important. I'll stay. For now." He would try, at least.

* * *

It’s nice, at first. Simple. He farms in a way he’s never let himself, gets dirt under his nails instead of blood, and leaves his armor hanging in his room (not his sword though, that stays with him. It always stays with him.). He watches the potatoes he planted ages ago shoot up, despite the fact that it’s entirely the wrong season, plunges his hands into the soil and lets his magic flow through the earth until he can smell nothing but the richness of soil and growing things. There is no blood, there is nothing but the quiet of the fields, of Wilbur playing under a nearby tree, of Tommy running between the rows to “help” harvest. Phil glides overhead (he says he's practicing, Techno thinks he's just restless and is viciously satisfied at the idea), lazily circling, casting a shadow over the fields at alternate turns.

He pulls another potato from the ground, blinks, and somehow the damp soil clinging to his fingers is different. It’s blood, and he can smell it, taste it in the back of his throat. The field has disappeared, all he can see is the blood coating his hands, and the voices clamor until he can hear nothing but their demands. They want blood, they want him to push forward until he finds something that will fall to his sword, and his hand falls to the hilt, he’s nearly drawn it when a voice breaks through the red, through the taste of blood.

“Techno! Techno, calm down. Put the sword away,  _ now _ . Everything is fine, okay? It’s just a bad potato, is all,” Wilbur’s voice is laid over with magic, but Techno can’t bring himself to be upset as his sword slides back into its sheath, as his eyes and throat clears. It still burns, the voices still scream, but Wilbur is in front of him, earnest brown eyes sure in the fact that his older brother isn’t going to hurt him. He can feel Phil behind him (home, warm, family,  _ home _ ), and it takes him a moment to realize Tommy is right behind Wilbur, brilliant blue eyes fixed on him, and Techno takes a deep breath. Takes another, lets his hands drop, the potato rolling from them.

“I’m okay. It’s fine.” He tells them, sees the way that they don’t believe him, the hesitation in the hand that Phil lays on his shoulder, but he refuses to meet their eyes, looks at the ground instead. A lump rises in his throat when he sees the hundreds of plants, green and growing, and he wants to throw up. What was he thinking? He can’t just become a farmer now. The voices continue to scream in his head, and it only strengthens his resolve. 

Blood for the blood god.

He leaves that night, moves silently through the house and saddles Carl, rides for the nearest city. He might be a regular to those fights, but it just means people pay more to fight him for some reason. They want to test themselves against the champion, and he doesn’t care, as long as the fight is good. 

It’s good that night, and he comes home nearly soaked in blood, little of it his own. The sun is only just rising, but Phil is already sitting on the little bench on the porch, rises as Techno rides down the little path to the stables. He ignores the older man, still enjoying the calm that the blood has brought, the way the voices are sated for now, although a few perk up at the sight of Phil. 

“Techno,” Phil’s voice rings through the small building, and Techno ignores it, keeps brushing Carl down, ignoring the way he’ll likely have to go jump in the pond himself to clean off. Phil steps forward, feet dragging against the hay, and he forces himself to stay still, adrenaline from the fight telling him to attack  _ now _ .

“We had an agreement, didn’t we? You weren’t going to leave. I know it’s hard, but-” at those words, a rush of rage he didn’t even know was there rises up, and he whirls, facing Phil with the same stance he’d used to fight off a horde of zombies earlier.

“ _ You know it’s hard _ ? Do you, Phil? Do you know anything at all about how hard it is? Do you have an inkling of what it’s like to look at someone and think only about how their blood would look decorating the ground? About what it’s like to crave that from your own family? Wilbur used his magic on me today, and I didn’t even care, because if he hadn’t, I would have hurt someone. I would have, and you wouldn’t be able to stop me, because I can beat you.  _ I can beat anyone _ . No one can stop me, and that is the only thing in this world that frightens me.” His chest is heaving by the time he finishes, and he’s certain this is the most words he’s spoken at once in his life. He feels empty, as though he just gave up part of himself, and now there’s nothing left. Phil just stares, mouth working, but empty, and Techno just shrugs past him, leaving the horses for now. 

“I’m going to go wash up before the other two see me,” he mutters, pulling his armor off and letting it clatter in a heap next to the house. He’ll have to clean it later, but for now, he lets the cold water engulf him, holds his breath until his lungs are screaming and then surfaces, just breathing as he watches the sun rise the rest of the way. It takes time to scrub his hair and nails until they’re clean, no traces of anything from last night left, and only then does he make his way inside, damp clothes sticking to still-wet skin. New resolve follows his steps. He won’t get hurt. He won’t hurt his family. And he won’t be a farmer. 

He doesn’t look back at the fields as he steps through the door. He’s made his choices, talents be damned.


	8. HOME IS A STIFLING THING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur doesn't know how to make a home.

Wilbur doesn’t know when their little cabin starts to feel less like home and more like a prison. He thinks maybe it’s after Techno leaves. Or at least, leaves for longer than he has before. He comes back, after a month, two months, six, a year. Each time he looks more haggard, harder, his voice is more monotonous, he isn’t the same. Phil doesn’t say anything, just gives him extras at dinner, doesn’t make him stay when he goes to leave again. Wilbur wants to scream at them both to stop this insanity, wants to yell at Techno that nothing is worth this, wants to make Phil do something. 

But he can’t.

Maybe it starts with the dreams, though. He barely remembers them when he wakes up, dreams about a home that’s cold and warm all at the same time, faceless people taking care of him and calling him son. When he wakes up to the warmth of Phil’s magic soaking the cabin, it feels like his skin is crawling, and he has to go outside to let the cool mountain air wash it from his skin.

He’s always known what Phil’s gift was, from when he asked too many questions as a kid and demanded to know Phil’s talent. He can still picture his father’s wry smile when he responded that all he could do was make a home, make anyone who entered feel welcome. It was wonderful as a kid who desperately wanted nothing more than a home, but now Wilbur has to wonder. Is this home? Does he actually love this little house, the pond outside, the people who live there? Or is this magic, telling him what he should feel?

He thinks he knows how people feel when he makes his illusions, when he tells them what to do. He feels as though he’s going mad, as though there’s nothing real about his life anymore. Still, as Techno’s name starts to make its way home, connected to the most bloodthirsty, talented warrior the world has seen, he wonders. Maybe it’s time for him to make his own name. 

He waits, though. He knows if nothing else, it will break Tommy’s heart, will leave Phil alone, and whether or not the feeling is contrived, he isn’t willing to hurt himself to test whether the magic is real or not. He may go mad before he finds out, but he is sure there isn’t anyone in this family who is entirely sane.

He leaves when he gets word of Techno’s latest fight. His brother has beaten the only other one who came close to his skill, took him on in a one on one fight and won. The stories vary from saying it was hardly a challenge to saying that both were half dead at the end, that it was a fight between two gods, that the winner was barely more than an animal by the end. Wilbur hates that he's like this, that his brother's fame only makes him long to leave even more, but he can't stomach seeing Techno return again, another layer to the heaviness that covers him.

So he leaves instead. Phil lets him, of course he does. Phil has never tried to stop them from leaving, he's only made it so they never want to do so. His bag is still heavy when he hefts it over his shoulder, guitar hanging from his back. He doesn't know what he's going to do, he just knows he can't stay here. He can't doubt whether or not this is actually a place he loves anymore, and as he looks at the small house, at the two standing on the porch, he knows one thing.

He's not coming back.

* * *

Wilbur is 21 and he's holding his son. His son, who has two fuzzy ears, who is as much fox as he is human, born of a nymph and a man. He knew better than to stay with her, but she was beautiful and shine in the moonlight, and the water was warm near the equator. And now he had been left with a son, told that she had no use for a child. 

For the child who now looks up at him, brown eyes trusting as he yawns, showing off sharp little teeth, and he can't help but wonder if this was how Phil felt, when he found them all. This surge of protectiveness, the urge to make the world a better place just for them. The desire to make a home of his own to ensure they always had a place to go back to.

Wilbur hasn't gone home yet. He almost does now. 

Instead, he builds a home of his own in the forest, a simple thing out of birch wood that looks nothing like the home he grew up in. He builds a third bedroom even though there are only two of them, and sends 3 letters out to the ends of the earth.

Techno comes first. He was in the area, he says, and his eyes light up in a way Wilbur hasn't seen in years at the sight of his nephew. He tries to refuse to hold him at first, but Wilbur forces it on him, just for the sight of the large hybrid holding the tiny baby so carefully, expression tender as he talks in a low voice to little Fundy.

"Phil is coming in a week, if you want to stay." Wilbur offers later, when the baby is asleep. Techno shakes his head, hand on the sword he still hasn't taken off. He used to at least take it off inside, even if it was always nearby.

"I have a competition in two days. I'll have to ride like hell to make it, but I wanted to see your son." His expression goes soft all over again at the thought of Fundy, and Wilbur has a moment of hope that maybe this will be what draws them all together again. His son could be the thing that fixes whatever was broken years ago.

The hope is dashed when Techno stands, stretches his back before stepping towards the door. "I'll see you later, yeah? I know where you are now." He says, glancing around the house. Wilbur stands as well, looks around the house he built, and he knows he won't be staying here. This isn't home either. This is just four walls and a roof, and he never learned how to make a home, but he's going to do his best. For his son. 

Phil and Tommy come later, as promised, and there's the same warmth in Phil's smile that he remembers, the same way, even in a house that's not his own, of making everyone welcome and comfortable. Fundy smiles at him, eyes already tracking everything in the room, despite being only a few weeks old. Wilbur has a feeling his son will be different, but that's all right. 

Tommy is loud, as usual, and he promises to teach Fundy all the best swear words when it's his turn to hold his nephew. Wilbur just rolls his eyes, already planning to not let the two stay alone together for more than a few minutes until Tommy gets older. 

Both boys are asleep later when Phil tells him he can come home, that he's always welcome, and he wavers, almost breaks. His hesitation is answer enough, apparently, and Phil just gives him a sad smile before shooing him off to bed. He thinks maybe, Phil knows the thing he can't admit to anyone but himself: he doesn't know what home is anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, after this chapter, things get very AU. Some of the canon stuff just...doesn't fit with this AU and also I didn't like how it flowed so yeah. I did update the tags to make sure they said canon divergence, so I hope you guys still like it!


	9. LEAVE IT IN THE PIT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things do not get left in the pit.

Techno is 23 and he's tired. The voices still rage, but he's tired enough to ignore them, tired enough to want to walk away. He doesn't even know what this latest war is about, one king wanting to take from another, he supposes. He's learned to hate kings, to hate governments. All they do is kill and oppress, and use him to do it, and he's tired of it all. He knows he's crafted himself into a weapon and nothing more, but that doesn't quell the urge to be seen as a person, not a Blade.

That's the main reason why he goes when he gets the letters from his brothers. They are fighting a war, they need help. They've been exiled from their own country, and he knows something about fighting a war, so he goes. 

He goes and he finds a war torn country. He finds Wilbur, with too-bright eyes and the tendency to lace magic into everything he says. Tommy, with scars and too much resting on too young shoulders. Their army is made up mostly of children, and his nephew is still in the country, Tommy's best friend is acting as a spy, and Techno...Techno is a weapon again. It was naive to think he'd be anyone else, he tells himself, but he still preaches to them about anarchy, about revolution, about freedom from any government telling them what to do, who to kill. He throws himself into gathering resources, rare armor and arrows and explosives. He calls in favors for the things he can't find, and quietly stockpiles his own last resort.

Time passes in a blur, blending together until he's standing on a platform, facing a child who is staring at him first with trust, and then with fear, and he knows his nephew is in the crowd, he can feel the others pointing arrows at his back. He has no choice, there is no way.

He takes a deep breath.

He points.

He shoots. 

The stage erupts in colors, and he knows that he's killed more than just Tubbo, he's killed Schlatt and his vice president, but he's already leaping away from the stage, shooting ahead of himself and praying that Fundy has gotten out of the way. It will take too long to check, so he dives into the lake, spins into the air with his enchanted trident, and he's gone. Past the city limits in an instant, looking for shelter with the others even as his head spins.

He thanks the gods he doesn't believe in when he sees Tubbo standing in the ravine, scars winding up his face, but not dead. Magic, he explains, something Dream did to each of them so they can each die 3 times and come back. It hurts, and it leaves scars, but it works. Anything else he says is lost to the way that Tommy is screaming at him, angry in a way that Techno hasn't seen in years, and he has no defense against the cutting words, the blazing blue eyes. 

He blinks again, and they're in a pit, Wilbur is talking to Tommy, magic lacing his words. 

"Fight him, Tommy, leave it in the pit. You're angry about what he did, make him  _ feel _ it." Techno stares, horrified at how Wilbur is using his gift, unable to believe this is the same kid who once swore to never use it against family again. And it isn't, not with the manic light shining in his eyes, the grin stretching across his face despite the situation.

"Why'd you do it? Why'd you kill him, Techno?" Tommy is just barely holding himself back, but he doesn't have the words to give him. He doesn't know how to explain that he valued his own life over his brother's best friend, that in that long 10 seconds he weighed the two and the wrong one came up lacking. 

The silence weighs heavy, and then Tommy hits him and the world grinds to a halt. Techno has never once fought his family. Not seriously, not outside of sparring that doesn't get serious, that he doesn't let get serious. This is different though, this is a black eye right away, and with the touch, something else. Something feels like it breaks away, and when he looks at his hand, it's bloody, he can feel the ache of bruises forming already.

"I can take away my healing, Techno. That's how it works. I can be dangerous too." Tommy looks satisfied, and Techno doesn't know if this is Wilbur or Tommy talking. He can see Wilbur out of the corner of his eye, grin on his face. He isn't even surprised when his other brother opens his mouth and more magic comes out.

"Techno, those are some bad wounds. You should get revenge.  _ Fight him _ . He won't die, he has 3 lives left. It's fine. Fight back, you're the great Technoblade. You can't be beaten by a child." The words drip like syrup in his ears, and his hands clench into fists. He has to do it, he does, he wants to do it. Wants to fight the person in front of him, wants to see them bleed for the crime of making him hurt. He wants this fight. He does. 

The voices scream.

He stops. 

_ Brother. _

_ Tommy. _

Tommy is in front of him, down on one knee, bruised from hits he doesn't remember throwing, and he turns, snarls at Wilbur, keeping his body between the two of them.

"Get the hell out of here, Wilbur," his voice is low, and he doesn't say all the things he wants to.  _ You promised. You said you didn't want to do this. You didn't want to be this person, but here we are. _ He waits until Wilbur turns to go, watches the way he walks with no care, and turns to help his other brother. Tommy is already reaching for him, magic glowing on his fingers despite the tears running down his face, despite the way he is clearly hurting, and Techno flinches away.

"Don't-don't touch me, Tommy. I don't-I can't…" Once again, his words have left him, leaving him to stare helplessly. 

Tommy seems to understand though, and together they make their way out of the pit, limp to Techno's room. He has healing potions, and they help a little at least, so they can sit on the bed together, blanket draped over their shoulders. Tommy is curled into his side like he used to when he was half the size he is now, and Techno thinks he's fallen asleep when his voice rings out.

"Techno? Tell me a story." The request is one that he got nearly every night at home, but it's been so long that Techno has to take a moment to think of anything. The first one that he can think of is far too fitting, and he almost doesn't, but he starts it anyways.

"Once there was a boy named Icarus…"

  
  
  


He wakes up the next morning and lays there, listening to the sound of Tommy breathing next to him, the faint sounds of people moving about the ravine, and his resolve hardens. He's not staying here. He can't stay here any longer. 

He moves quietly, not wanting to wake Tommy, and finds a paper and quill. The letter is short, easy to write, and he mutters the spell with a twist of his wrist to send it off before sweeping his cape over his shoulders.

"Tommy, wake up," he whispers, laying a hand on Tommy's shoulder. The teenager jolts awake, hand going for the axe that isn't there, and Techno has a moment of regret that the kid has those instincts. He shouldn't. He should be playing, or doing whatever kids do. 

"Go get Tubbo, get your things, meet me outside. Do not tell Wilbur, understand?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. semi-verbal techno who can't express himself literally gives me life and 2. I did say things were gonna get very AU, right? Because it starts here. Also 3. THESEUS AS A STORY DOESN'T FIT TOMMY AT ALL TECHNOBLADE WTH YOU ARE A LIT MAJOR GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER DID YOU EVER READ THE MYTH and 4. uuuuh there are either like....three chapters or like ten chapters left, I haven't decided which. Or possibly three and then a second thing in this series that's just outtakes. 
> 
> Sorry this author note got really long.


	10. DESPERATION KNOWS NO BOUNDS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur isn't insane, and he can definitely prove it. Phil just wants to save his sons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (small-ish spoiler here, but I wanted to put a trigger warning)
> 
> Hey guys, just a short warning! This chapter and the next are gonna have some suicidal themes. Nothing worse than canon, but I didn't want to trigger anyone. This chapter is by far the worst, so proceed with caution!

Phil never regrets adopting his sons. They have turned into being his entire world, wrapped up in three very different men. Raising them, even the little bit he did, is by far one of things he is most happy he was able to do.

He does wonder though. If maybe he should have given them to someone else. Wilbur and Tommy, at least, he could have found a family for them. Techno would have been harder, being a hybrid and his other...problems. But the other two, maybe he could have saved them. Because surely it was his parenting that did this. His parenting that sent his boys off to be warmongers, revolutionaries, child soldiers who fight other child soldiers. Maybe if it wasn't for him, wasn't for his magic, Wilbur could have stayed, could have talked to someone. He had seen his middle son getting torn apart, and hadn't known how to fix it. He knew some people hated his magic, hated the way it made them feel like family even if they weren't. But he couldn't turn it off. He couldn't stop it, and so he let Wilbur go.

Maybe if he was better, if he had a different gift, Wilbur wouldn't be like this.

The letter in his hand crinkles as his grip on it tightens. Techno has laid out what's happening there in few words, but it's weighty, and Phil can fill in the gaps with Tommy's letters, with the way Wilbur and Fundy don't write anymore. Wilbur has been abusing his gift, has become obsessed with L'Manberg, and Phil doesn't know if he can stop him

But he can try. Mistakes or not, Phil is his father. Wilbur is the only one who routinely calls him Dad (Tommy sometimes does, but it depends on his mood, Techno never has), and that means that he has to step up. He has to be that father, and he holds onto that as he packs a bag, straps on his sword, and starts walking. 

He's going to save his sons.

* * *

Wilbur isn't crazy. He isn't insane, or anything else people are saying about him. He has a perfectly rational plan to destroy L'Manberg. It's going to be beautiful, a symphony of explosions to end the unfinished beauty of the country he no longer has control of. He just has to wait for the perfect moment, a time when everyone is there to see it. They've been talking about a festival, and maybe that's the best time. He can send in a few people, maybe Technoblade, and the rest of them can lay in wait until the time arrives.

Yes. It's perfect. The perfect plan, and he pauses where he's etching the last lyrics of the anthem, cocks his head to listen. The ravine is silent. Usually it's loud with the chatter of two teenage boys, feet running, even Techno's voice rumbling through occasionally. Today, though, today it's silent, and it prompts him to leave the room, travel up the tunnel and into the ravine. There's no one. Nothing moves, nothing but a zombie he kills, barely paying attention, and goes to check their rooms.

No one is there, and things are missing. Not everything, but little things. Food, clothes, weapons, and he goes to Techno's room next. It's been cleaned out of anything valuable, and a letter with his name on it is resting on the neatly made bed. 

He snatches it up, tearing it open to scan the contents.

_ Wil, _

_ I promised I would stop you. I have to protect Tommy and Tubbo from everything. Come find us when you figure yourself out. _

_ If you try to manipulate me again I'm putting a sword through your heart. _

_ Techno _

Wilbur's heart squeezes, mind clearing for a moment as he remembers a different letter, a desperate plea to be protected and be protected from. He sinks onto the bed, his brother's bed, and curls in the corner, letting his head rest on his knees. He's so tired. He's so tired, and the bed smells like Techno, the mix of Nether brimstone and growing things his brother always carries no matter what. It feels like home, and he wants to stay there, cling to this moment of clarity and pretend he's 15 again, waiting for the two of them to come in from sparring, for Phil to get home so he can play his newest song. 

As though he's summoned him, the rustle of wings sounds at the doorway, a sound he heard everyday for 21 years, and his head shoots up to see Phil standing in the doorway, expression unsure. For once, Wilbur can't feel the magic radiating off of him, and maybe that's what breaks him. Or maybe it's the sadness in Phil's voice when he speaks.

"Hey, kid," it's all he says, but Wilbur can feel his face crumple, the tears already flowing, and Phil moves quickly, he's pulling Wilbur into his arms, soft wings engulfing them as Wilbur clings, cries like he's ten years old again, apologizes until he runs out of breath. 

He finally pushes away, wipes at the tears still stealing his cheeks.

"Dad, you have to stop me. I can't-I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I-God, I hurt Tommy. I hurt Techno, I hurt  _ everyone _ . Please, stop me." He's clinging to the front of Phil's shirt, face buried in it again as Phil's hand runs across his back. 

"I promise, Wil, I won't let you hurt anyone else. We're going to fix this, okay? I promise." It’s not a promise Phil can make, not really. Not when Wilbur has already hurt so many people, has forced them to hurt each other, and  _ God _ , why didn’t Techno already just run him through? He should have, after what Wilbur had done to him and Tommy, the way he had forced them to actually fight each other, had triggered Techno in a way that he didn’t even know he knew how to do. He shouldn’t be allowed to be around people, Schlatt was right to exile him,  _ Schlatt was right _ . He can feel his hands tighten around Phil’s shirt until his fingers hurt, and he doesn’t think through the words before he says them, they spill out before he can stop.

“You can’t stop me,” he whispers, the words burning his throat. “No one can stop me. Dad, you have to kill me. It’s the only way, you have your sword, do it now. Please.  _ Please _ .” He leans back to look into Phil’s eyes, and everything  _ burns _ . He aches, and he desperately wants it to end. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone else, and Phil can make it stop. It’s Phil’s job, Phil is father, and he’s supposed to protect him, even from himself. 

Phil’s eyes are wet, and one hand rests on the handle of sword, strapped to his side in a way it usually wasn’t when he was at home, his other on the back of Wilbur’s head, fingers tangled in the curls like he used to when Wilbur was a kid, curled in his lap to hear a story or just fall asleep where it was warm and safe. Wilbur closes his eyes, waits for the blow. Phil will do it. Phil knows, same as him, that this is the only way.

The rush of magic flowing into him is his only warning, the way his limbs get heavy and his brain fogs is the next, and he can hardly open his eyes to look at his father.

“Dad?” The word is slurred, and darkness encroaches on his vision in the next moment, and then blissful unconsciousness embraces him.

* * *

Phil lowers the limp body of his son to the bed, unable to stop the tears that are pouring down his cheeks. How did he fail this badly? How did he never see how bad his own son was before it was too late? Wilbur was always the one who came to him for everything, maybe that was why. Techno rarely talked without Phil forcing him to, and Tommy deflected any questions with loud and inappropriate jokes. Wilbur, though, Wilbur was always too happy to tell him every detail of his day, every thought in his head. Only maybe he hadn’t, maybe it had been his own form of deflection, and Phil just never noticed.

He smooths a stray curl from Wilbur’s forehead, caught in just how young he was. And yet, older than Phil was when he adopted him, older than he was when he adopted Techno, even. His chest is falling in even breaths now, at least, which is better than before, when he was nearly hyperventilating, begging to die in a way that seemed to wrench a knife in Phil’s own heart. He was right, but Phil had to believe there was hope. That Wilbur could learn to control this, could decide to be better, could learn to make a home for himself without violence. That they all could.

He takes a deep breath, wipes the tears from his cheeks and stands. Techno had sent a compass after he had found a spot with the two boys, but Phil doesn’t know if they’re ready for that yet. No matter what, they need to get away from this place though. It smells of madness and desperation, it’s cold, little more than a hole in the ground that they’ve carved a rough sort of life out of. 

It doesn’t take long to find Wilbur’s room, and he takes a breath before gathering what he thinks his son will miss. A few changes of clothes, his guitar, dusty with disuse. An old picture of him and Fundy, both smiling in a way Phil doubts happens anymore. He leaves the rest, goes back to where Wilbur is still sleeping. He’s never been good with sleeping spells, there’s no telling how long Wilbur will stay that way, and he scoops him into his arms, bends his knees to take off into the blue sky, and heads for somewhere safe. Somewhere new. 


	11. THE HARDEST THING IS TO HEAL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healing is harder than hurting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed the chapter count has changed and this is the last one! Check the end for more notes. :)

Wilbur dreams. He's looking in a mirror, and his younger self stares back. His reflection says something, but when he tries to look closer, the face blurs out.

He falls.

He's floating above his own head, and he's younger than he remembers being. Part of him always wondered if he came into being at 10 years old, but here he is, and he doesn't remember this, but he can read the lines of anger in his own face, the way he's screaming at an adult that's desperately trying to placate him.

He can see the magic, somehow, that winds around the adult until they move away, limbs jerky as they go. He can't focus on their face either, just the tears running down his cheeks.

He falls.

He's looking in the mirror again, still a child, still mouthing something. He can't see it though, can't understand. He wants to wake up.

He falls.

He's hovering again, watching the scene play out. Adults, moving with those same jerky movements as he plays on the floor. They bring him things, cake, a new toy, until he says something sharp and they go and huddle in the kitchen. He still can't see their faces, but he can tell they're scared. What has he done? Why can't he remember?

He falls. 

He's looking in the mirror, and this time he can see the magic winding around him, can almost hear what he's saying. He clings to sink, to the walls, trying to stay, trying to figure out what's happening.

He falls.

He can see the magic again, the way it's flowing from his younger self's mouth and washing over the adults. They're blinking, relaxing as if a load is being released. He can almost see their faces now, can see the way they're confused by his presence, as though...as though they'd forgotten he was there.

He jumps.

His reflection is screaming now, and it echoes through his head until he smashes his hands over this ears. It doesn't help.

"Remember! Remember what you did!" It rings through him, and something knocks loose as he sinks to his knees. Somehow the floor is the one from Phil's house, the one he grew up in, and he curls in on himself. He's always been terrible. This is just proof. He controlled his parents, he can remember now. He controlled them, and then when he was tired of them, he told them to forget, told _himself_ to forget. 

He can remember now, the old coat he wore was his father's, so was the hat that he'd lost years ago. His guitar was his mother's, he can remember her playing now, can faintly remember her teaching him. They had been happy, he thinks. Until he ruined it.

He falls.

He falls, and he doesn't expect to stop. He's going to fall forever, never wake up. 

He falls, and he's caught by strong arms, pressed to a warm body and covered by wings that are oh so familiar. He reaches in return, curls into the embrace like he hasn't in years, and lets out a breath.

He opens his eyes.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Wilbur has been home (or what counts as it, the cabin the woods he grew up in has been abandoned, it seems) for two weeks, and he's still not certain he should be here. Phil says he's ready, that he hasn't even used magic in weeks. Wilbur doesn't know how to tell him that he's wanted to. He can feel it in the back of his throat, urging him to make everything easier, make every word he says _better_. Instead, he stumbles through apologies to Tommy, to Techno, to Tubbo. They're artless, just him with his eyes on the floor and a clumsy tongue. 

He hasn’t talked much since then.

He doesn’t know why Phil is so sure that he isn’t a danger anymore. He still feels as though he’s on the knife’s edge of falling, and it’s a coin’s toss on which way he’ll fall. He can feel Techno’s gaze boring into his back, sees the way Tommy flinches whenever he opens his mouth, the way Phil is deliberately calm. Tubbo just avoids him, but that hurts too, when the kid used to nod along to his every word. 

He hasn’t been sleeping much, either. Everytime he closes his eyes, he feels like he’s falling, and he keeps waking Techno up with the way he thrashes, looking for something to hold onto. They’re sharing a room again, because Techno wants to keep an eye on him. Not that he said that, he just avoided any questions and shrugged when Phil asked about adding onto the house.

He’s curled on the couch in the living room now, watching the snowflakes fall outside. It’s always snowing here, but he doesn’t mind. The flakes are calming, something to focus on that’s not in his head. 

He doesn’t look up when there’s a noise, just keeps staring out the window. It’s not Techno, his brother (is he still his brother? Has he ruined that too?) walks too heavily for it to be anyone else. Not Phil either, there’s no soft rustle of feathers as they drag against a doorway. Tommy, then, or Tubbo. He doesn’t want to see either of them flinch when he looks at them, or the way their eyes never leave him, like they’re just waiting for him to do something stupid. 

There’s the soft sounds of movement in the kitchen, but he blocks them out, curling tighter into the blanket he’s pulled over his lap. Even with Phil here, this house isn’t as warm, doesn’t radiate the sense of home. In some ways, it’s comforting. He skin isn’t crawling, he doesn’t feel like he’s being lied to, or lying to himself. But also...he misses the comfort of knowing where home is. Of feeling anchored. He’s floating now, has been for years, and he doesn’t know how to come down to earth. Phil keeps telling him he should write to Fundy, tell his son where he is, but he can’t put the words onto a page. He’s better off disappearing, would leave here too if he didn’t think they would come after him. 

He starts, broken from his thoughts when a hand appears in front of him, holding a cup of steaming liquid. His eyes travel up the arm to Tommy’s face, the way the teen is resolutely meeting his eyes, and he carefully takes the mug.

“Thank you,” he whispers, unable to force himself to speak any louder. Tommy just nods, and there’s a long moment of hesitation before he sits next to him on the couch. Wilbur can feel his shoulders stiffen, and he takes a sip of his drink instead of commenting on it, asking what Tommy’s doing. He doesn’t want to break whatever this is, whatever it is that has Tommy sitting in the middle of the couch, close enough that Wilbur can feel the heat coming off him, instead of the opposite side, or just going back to his room. 

“Hey, Wil?” Tommy’s voice is quiet, for once, and he glances over at the teen. He’s staring out the window too, eyes trained on the snow like it’s got the answers to the universe. Wilbur hums in question, and Tommy glances at him, a half smile twisting his lips. 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he pauses, and Wilbur would be fine if he left it there, that’s enough to make him feel lighter, like maybe it isn’t hopeless, but Tommy keeps talking. “I was worried about you, and Phil never wrote. You weren’t-you weren’t doing well, you know? You weren’t yourself anymore. I know you, and it wasn’t you. You wouldn’t hurt anyone like that.” His voice is so confident, and Wilbur doesn’t know how.

“What if it is though?” The words tear out of him in a way that they haven’t since he got here, since his dreams finally changed. “What if I’m nothing but a monster who hurts people? I’ve been hurting people since I left home, Toms, and I don’t know if I can stop. I can feel-” he has to stop, swallow hard and swipe at the tears that have started running down his face. “I can feel the magic, you know? It’s right there, and it’s so _easy_ to bring it up. I can just let it flow and everyone thinks I have something to say. I don’t want to be this way, but I can’t stop.” He’s actually crying now, and Tommy gets up, walks away. 

He’s ruined this too, then and he curls in on himself as best he can with the hot drink still in his hands. He’s trying, and he’s still failing, after Tommy even reached out to him. 

Footsteps sound again, and Tommy reappears, guitar in hand. Wilbur uncurls a little, but he can’t stop the tears yet. The dam has broken, not that he’s sure there was much of one. He hasn’t done a lot but cry lately, and he hates it. Tommy holds out the instrument with a jerky motion, takes his cup when Wilbur takes it, hesitation obvious, sits back on the couch next to him, closer this time.

“Wil? Play me a song. I want to see the lights.” It’s the same thing Tommy used to say when he was younger, when Wilbur would play by the fire every night, magic in his fingers and the strings and his voice. It’s been months since he looked at his guitar, but it still fits in his hands, even with new calluses from weapons, and he hesitates before letting the magic flow into his fingers. 

He plays, and sings, and the lump of magic in the back of his throat dissipates until he can breathe again, and when Tommy leans against him fully, humming along, he finally feels warm. 

He thinks he’s home again.

* * *

  
  


Techno doesn't know how to talk to Wilbur. His brother had apologized, Phil at his elbow and his eyes on the ground, the whole affair strangely reminiscent of childhood. It's something, but not enough to break the image he has of Wilbur's grin, of the way he'd pushed him and Tommy to fight, the way he'd only called him The Blade there at the end. 

He hears it when Wilbur starts playing again, closes his eyes where he's laying in bed and listens to the music, pretends they're in a different house, a different time. It's easier than confronting where they are now. 

It takes 5 more days for him to actually speak to his brother. They're still brothers, he thinks. Probably. Wilbur might not feel the same, not after being threatened, after the way Techno's been watching him.

He doesn't mean to. He just doesn't want him to be alone. He thinks maybe that's why Wilbur spiraled before: he left, and his brother went mad. It makes a sick sort of sense. 

Tonight is a bad night for the voices. They've gotten rarer, he doesn't often wake up in a cold sweat, the screaming doesn't get so loud anymore that he can think of nothing but blood, but there are still nights like these. Nights where they rage for vengeance, for him to ride away, for him to burn the house to the ground, to go to L'Manberg and make it into a crater. 

He knows better than to try to sleep, and he can't read like this, so he's staring into the fire, wondering if he could sneak out without Phil knowing, when he hears footsteps in the stairs. They're light, almost silent, and he already knows who it is. 

It's not a good night for this, but he looks up anyways, meets Wilbur's eyes and lifts up the blanket he's draped over his lap, a silent invitation to share. Wilbur only hesitates a moment before he's slipping to sit next to him, wiry frame curled into Techno's stocky one like a pleased cat. Maybe they don't need words, he thinks, letting his arm rest over Wilbur's shoulders. The voices still scream, but he's better at this now. He can focus on his brother, not on them. 

"Hey, Tech?" Obviously Wilbur feels differently about silence, and Techno hums in response, letting out a slow, measured breath when the voices amp up at the sound of Wilbur's voice.

"Why'd you leave? Before? I don't-you didn't seem to like it, all the fighting, so why?" His voice is soft, but no less plaintive at the end. It's clear what he's asking. _Why'd you leave me?_ And Techno isn't sure how to answer. It was one thing to tell Phil, to open himself up to someone who's shown nothing but kindness and a willingness to keep secrets. 

Wilbur, on the other hand, has never been able to keep secrets. He's never had the patience, the ability to keep quiet, but Techno thinks of the last few days and thinks maybe Wilbur has learned a few lessons.

"I got stolen when I was 7, you know. From the Nether. They tossed me in the Pits to fight. A piglin is a good attraction, I guess." Wilbur makes an unhappy sound at that, and Techno elbows him. "I was good. And, uh, he noticed." Telling it this time is more coherent than when he told Phil, it only because he knows Wilbur will actually ask questions if he's not satisfied with the story.

"The, uh, the Blood God. He told me that he would help me, would make me strong. All I had to do was fight." He's still staring at the flames, but he's not seeing them, he's seeing a grinning mouth, filled with too many teeth. "He's in my head now. Him and everyone else I kill, I think. I can hear their voices. They just want blood, all the time, and it's painful sometimes. It's all I can think about." He ends in a whisper, too aware of the way Wilbur has gone tense next to him, waits for him to push away, to look at him in fear. There's silence for a long moment before Wilbur speaks again.

"Do you wish you hadn't been stolen?" His voice is low, an emotion he can't identify in it, and he can't make himself look at Wilbur's face.

"No. I don't-this is my family. I wouldn't have met any of you if I hadn't been, and I wouldn't give that up." Even with everything that's happened, that's the truth. He's been to the Nether since he became an adult, of course. It's familiar in an odd sort of way, but he can't remember how to speak anything but english, can't remember anything about his life before. There's nothing to miss. Wilbur sighs, leans into him more heavily.

"Love you too, Techno." 

* * *

  
  
  


Home is not always a place. That much is inarguable. Sometimes home is a person.

Home is two blondes, laughing as they try to build a place for bees to live in the winter cold, slowly healing from their trauma.

Home is a warrior starting to farm again, learning to lean on those around him.

Home is a broken boy becoming a man and learning to heal the jagged edges he didn't know were there.

Home is a set of wings that can wrap around them all, that always carry their owner home.

Home is a son, a nephew, making his way through the snow, a letter clutched in his hand.

Home is the people you love and nothing more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest, I disliked this chapter. I've been playing with it for like a week, trying to get it to work, but it just feels flat to me. Hopefully you guys like it better though!
> 
> Also, this might be the last chapter of this, since this is basically the point I wanted to get the characters to, BUT I'm making this into a series. I'll be posting a new story in it with outtakes. Just scenes that didn't quite fit, or that I thought of afterwards. So keep an eye out for that, and I've got a couple other things I'm thinking about writing.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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